


Battle of Wits

by unwillingadventurer



Category: Colditz (1972)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwillingadventurer/pseuds/unwillingadventurer
Summary: Simon is in solitary confinement again. What better time for another chess game with Major Mohn?





	Battle of Wits

The rain pelted down outside as Flight Lieutenant Simon Carter glanced out of the small barred window in his solitary confinement cell. There was the sound of keys jangling from behind him at the door and he slowly made his way back to the chair beside the table and sat down. He watched as the door opened and in stepped the upright, formidable figure of Major Horst Mohn, carrying a small wooden box in his hands. Simon sighed. Of all the visitors he could have wished for, the Major certainly wasn’t one of them. And yet there he was most days, standing there watching over him like a hawk.

“Good morning, Mr. Carter,” Mohn said in the manner Simon had become accustomed to.

“Major, I thought this was called solitary confinement. The chaps will start to think you’re giving me preferential treatment.”

Mohn’s lip tried to remain still but it quivered on one side. He placed the small box onto the table and pulled out a chess piece- the bishop- and held it in the palm of his hand. “I thought you’d like to improve your game, Mr. Carter, nothing more. Even in solitary, minds need to be sharpened do they not?”

Simon nodded and watched as Mohn struggled into his seat opposite, shuffling uncomfortably in the hard, wooden chair. Mohn’s face remained straight but Simon could see the way his lips pursed ever so slightly, concealing to the world just how much pain his war injury brought him. 

Taking out some chess pieces from the box, Simon began placing them on the board quickly. He positioned the white pieces on his own side. “I’ve been meaning to say Major, it’s a nice set. Is it yours?”

“It is. A gift from when I was a child.”

Simon sniffed. “Hard to think of you as a child, Major.”

Mohn ignored Simon’s comment and placed the black pieces on his own side of the board. He peered hard at Simon. “Well then, here they all are. Make your move, Mr. Carter.”

Their eyes locked on one another for several moments before Simon moved one of his pawns and then leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Your turn then.”

“You can’t rush these things, Mr. Carter.”

“I don’t know. If there’s a chance you’ve got to take it.”

Mohn nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes and staring at his chess pieces as if they were his own men on a battlefield. “Strategy in this case is paramount. Making the wrong decision can have disastrous consequences.” He placed his finger onto one of his pieces and shook it ever so slightly, refusing for several moments to let it go. Finally, his fingers loosened their grip and he allowed himself to make his move.

Yawning, Simon ran his fingers through his hair so that it fell onto his face. “Hurry it along, its only ten days until I’m out of here.” He looked at Mohn and saw the trace of a smile. “Though I can see the merit of taking it slow, after all, I want to savour beating you.”

There was another brief smirk from Mohn’s lips before it disappeared. Simon stared at him for several moments, taking the first real look at the man’s features. He wondered what he might look like without the permanent scowl and the scar that now dominated the space beside the right eye.

“Is that the move you’re going to make?” Mohn said, matter-of-factly as Simon moved another piece casually. 

Simon could hear the judgement in the Major’s deep voice. He sighed and refused to look into his eyes. Mohn’s focused stare was enough to break any man. “It’s not going to work, you know, trying to put me off?”

Mohn placed his chin onto his hands, steadying himself against the table. He then winced for a moment. 

“Something bothering you?” Simon asked.

“You need not presume anything is…bothering me…Mr. Carter.”

“We all get bothered by things in here, I’m sure even you’re no exception.”

Mohn continued to stare at Simon, his unmoving eyes terrifying to look at. Simon felt as though Mohn was reading his mind. He tried to ignore the interrogating stare and instead concentrated on his next move. At that moment it was in the Major’s hands but Simon meant to stay a step ahead. If only he could predict Mohn’s strategy.

“But sill, how you manage to put up with all of us,” Simon began, rambling as he slouched in his chair, “trying to escape and all the noise and our behaviour. It’s a wonder you sleep at night.”

“Schoolboys simply need the right discipline, Mr. Carter.” Mohn moved a chess piece across the board with a certain amount of confidence. 

“But then I don’t think you sleep much at night, do you? Insomnia is it? I’ve seen you outside the dormitory, patrolling like you’re one of the sentries. Bit beneath you isn’t it, Major? You should speak to Captain Brent about your insomnia, he suffers from the same things only he…”

There was a sudden bang as Mohn’s fist made contact with the table. Simon’s lips curled into a smile, knowing he’d briefly antagonised him. Unfortunately, within moments Mohn had regained his composure and was staring at the board, his eyes darting back and forth between the white and black. 

“You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?” Simon leaned forward in his chair, his whole body leaning in over the chess set.

“I prefer to keep to the matter at hand. I hardly think we’d have anything to talk about. I doubt we share the same…interests.”

“You’re probably right.” Simon slumped back in his chair again. “Though we both like chess.”

Mohn’s lips pursed together. “That’s very true.”

“You like literature, Major?”

Mohn’s eyes moved toward the tatty coverless book that lay next to the chess board on Simon’s side. “I can see you do, Mr. Carter.”

“More so since being stuck in here. That’s a copy I stole from Squadron Leader Shaw.”

“Stole?”

“Borrowed.”

Mohn picked up the book and flicked through its pages, his eyes scanning over them. “I’ve recently become acquainted with this particular novel. Written by a woman. Emily…”

“Bronte. Read much of it?”

“None.” Mohn stared at one page, his eyes focused on a small passage of words. “I see the heroine of the story is named Cathy. I see now why you chose this novel.”

“That had nothing to do with it.” He looked away from the Major, instead choosing to stare down at the board. He felt his blood boil whenever Mohn used Cathy’s name. If anything was to provoke a reaction from him, that would be it and Mohn knew it.

“How is Cathy?” Mohn said, pushing further, attempting to lean forward.

“Well you ought to know how she is. You read all her letters before I do.”

“She sends her love by the way.”

Simon bit his lip. “What?”

Mohn waved his hand dismissively as if it was of no relevance. “In your latest letter from home, Cathy sends her fondest regards.”

“Does she?” Simon ran his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for the update,” he said through gritted teeth.

With a smack of the lips, Mohn finally leaned in and placed his hands over the chess pieces, making his move and removing one of Simon’s with a swipe of the hand before reclaiming it in his palm. “Cathy is a very…beautiful woman.”

Simon’s hand clenched tightly. He made his own move, taking away one of Mohn’s pieces in retaliation. Their eyes were directly concentrated on each other.

“Not a woman of your own to talk about?” Simon asked. 

Mohn’s lip twitched, his cheek jumping along with it. “Do you see any women at Colditz, Mr. Carter?”

Simon smiled. “Shame.”

“Women are a distraction and irrelevant at this moment. Play the game you are playing, Mr. Carter.”

Simon ignored his condescension. He leaned in again and rubbed his chin in thought. “Not thought of getting a wife then?” His hand hovered over the chess pieces, much more interested in the Major’s reaction than the game at hand. “Perhaps you could read your own letters then.”

“Silence.”

“Some sweet obedient little Fraulein perhaps.”

There was another bang as Mohn’s fist again made contact with the table, this time causing a few pieces to fall onto their sides.

“Ah now look what you’ve done, Major. Chaos everywhere, you must be slipping.”

Simon watched him, waiting for his reaction. He wasn’t sure if the man would be angry or remain neutral but instead, to Simon’s surprise, Mohn let out a small smile. 

“As you can see my side of the board remains intact, the only chaos now resides in your half. We shall see who is victorious hm?”

“I suppose so, still a little bit of chaos makes things a bit more interesting.”

“I disagree.”

“You must have been fun at parties,” Simon muttered under his breath before placing back the few pieces that had fallen.

There was a long duration of silence then as the two of them moved their pieces across the board, one by one, quicker than before, the game suddenly becoming exciting. Within minutes there was only a handful of pieces left on the board and no winner in sight.

Suddenly there was a harsh knocking at the door and the little hatch opened. Simon could only make out the vivid blue eye of Hauptmann Ullman staring in at them. For the next few moments all he could hear was the German language he did not understand as Ullman and Mohn conversed. The hatch then closed and Mohn began to rise from his chair, his body straightening and his face twitching again in obvious discomfort. 

“We will have to resume our game another time, Mr. Carter.” He picked up the chess pieces and placed them neatly into his wooden box, placing the box under his arm when he’d finished.

“Something wrong out there?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.” Mohn saluted him and then turned sharply to the door. 

“Same time tomorrow then, Major?” Simon said as he reclined back on his chair with his hands behind his head.

Mohn spun around and stared at him, his expression unreadable. “We shall see, Mr. Carter, we shall see.”

When Mohn had left the cell, Simon picked up his copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ and sighed. Eighteen days done, ten more to go. How many of those would provide chess play and a battle of wits with Major Mohn? He hadn’t given up yet. He never would.


End file.
